'clock to go to work, the night man remarked that I must be
feeling pretty brash; my spirits seemed so high. And in fact, that was
no joke; I was feeling fine as silk and showed it all over. But as I
said good morning to Borroughs, I noticed that he seemed rather glum,
and I asked: "What's the matter, Dad? Feeling bad this morning?"

He snapped back in a manner entirely foreign to him, "No, but I don't
feel much like chaffing this day. I feel as if something was going to
happen, and I don't like the feeling."

I answered, "Oh! bosh, Dad. You'll feel all right in a few minutes; I
reckon you've got a good old attack of dyspepsia; brace up."

Just then the wires started up, and he gruffly told me to sit down and
go to work and our conversation ceased. That was the first time he had
ever used anything but a gentle tone to me, and I felt hurt. The first
trick is always the busiest, and under the stress of work the incident
soon passed from my mind. Pat remarked once, that the general
superintendent was going to leave Chaminade in a special at 10:30 A. M.,
on a tour of inspection over the road. That was about all the talking he
did that morning. His work was as good as ever, and in fact, he made
some of the prettiest meets that morning I had ever seen.

[Illustration: "... Half lying on the table, face downward, dead by
his own hand"]

About 10:35, I asked Borroughs to allow me to go over to the hotel to
get a cigar. I would be gone only a few minutes. He assented, and I
slipped on my overcoat and went out. I wasn't gone over ten minutes, and
as I stepped into the doorway to come upstairs on my return, I heard
what sounded like a shot in the office. I flew upstairs two steps at a
time, and never to my dying day will I forget the sight that met my
gaze. Borroughs, whom I had left but a few moments before full of life
and energy, was half lying on the table, face downwards, dead by his own
hand. The blood was oozing from a jagged wound in his temple, and on the
floor was the smoking pistol he had used. Fred Bennett, the chief
despatcher, as pale as a ghost, was bending over him, while the two call
boys were standing near paralyzed with fright. It was an intensely
dramatic setting for a powerful stage picture, and my heart stood still
for a minute as I contemplated the awful scene. Mr. Hebron, the division
superintendent, came in from the outer office, and was transfixed with
horror and amazement when he saw the terrible pic